


it's like i couldn't breathe

by softseptember



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:15:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25841947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softseptember/pseuds/softseptember
Summary: Richie felt like, that day, he had started holding his breath and never been able to release it.That’s not good, he remembered thinking.Not good at all. So he did what he had learned to do with things that weren’t good, with feelings that would only cause pain, with secrets that should never be spoken out loud: he put them away in a box in his heart and he closed the lid with a decisiveclick. And then he tried to forget all about it.Of course it didn’t work.---Or: I listened to Taylor Swift'sBettyone time too many and couldn't get the idea of Richie riding his bike past Eddie's house and realising that he's in love with him out of my head. This is what followed.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 9
Kudos: 63





	it's like i couldn't breathe

**Author's Note:**

> So, obviously this is based on Taylor Swift’s song _Betty_ , more specifically on the line: _"Betty, one time I was riding on my skateboard / when I passed your house / it's like I couldn't breathe."_  
>   
>  I know it’s been weeks, but from the moment I first heard the song, I had this very clear image of Richie in my mind, riding past Eddie’s house and realising he loved him. So this story was born. It's very loosely based on the song, though, and doesn't borrow more from it than the basic concept (especially of that one line cited above), a few names and locations, as well as the title, of course. As for the time frame, I imagine this story to be set in modern times, not the time the book or movies were set in. I also wanted to write a world in which Pennywise doesn't exist, but growing up in Derry is still difficult, only for different reasons.

Richie Tozier remembered the exact moment he had first realised he was in love.

It had been summer—like it was now—but he’d still been a child, then; not exactly carefree, because growing up in Derry meant that you always had to watch your back, but he just hadn’t yet started taking the world too seriously.

(Not that many people would say that he did so, now. Richie Tozier and the word _serious_ were rarely used in the same sentence, unless they were accompanied by _is never_. What people didn’t see was the amount of effort it took to uphold this unconcerned front. “There goes Trashmouth Tozier,” he could almost hear them saying, “with a grin on his lips, joke at the ready.” But that was only a part of who he truly was.)

That summer, though, thoughts like these hadn’t plagued his mind. He was only 12, too young to really make sense of the amount of his feelings, but old enough to understand that they went deeper than he had previously assumed; much, much deeper. 

He had been on his way home, the sound of the wheels of his bike on the ground almost hypnotising. He had felt invincible after a day at the quarry with Bill, Stan and Eddie, his skin still warm from the sun. Eddie had to leave early, because his mother worried that he’d get sunburned despite the ten layers of sunscreen she’d applied in the morning—watching him go had felt a little bit like rain clouds were approaching, darkening the summer sky. 

All that’s to say that Richie went home alone, passing Eddie’s house like he usually did on the way.

But that day was different from all the days before, all those years of walking home, more often with than without Eddie, the other boy’s house somehow intimidating to Richie, an ominous presence, even though he didn’t understand why. That day, he was riding on his bike, Eddie‘s house on his left, and he saw the lights still on in Eddie’s room, illuminating the night, and drawing Richie’s attention. He wanted Eddie to step up to the window, wanted him to spot Richie down there, wanted him to smile and roll his eyes, like he did when Richie told a joke and Eddie didn’t want to admit that he actually found it was funny.

That day, it suddenly felt hard to breathe. And Richie realised that he had never wanted to see any of his other friends the way he wanted to see Eddie in that moment, with an urgency that felt almost tangible, and just the possibility of not seeing him made Richie anxious. He wanted to make sure Eddie was okay. And right there, on the street across Eddie’s house, all he wanted to do was make Eddie laugh; he was certain that he’d never want anything more, Eddie’s eyes crinkling at the sides when he smiled, his nose scrunching up in that way of his. It made his heart feel unbearably soft and so, so heavy at the same time. Because Richie wanted something he knew he could never have.

Richie felt like, that day, he had started holding his breath and never been able to release it.

 _That’s not good_ , he remembered thinking. _Not good at all_. So Richie did what he had learned to do with things that weren’t good, with feelings that would only cause pain, with secrets that should never be spoken out loud: he put them away in a box in his heart and he closed the lid with a decisive _click_. And then he tried to forget all about it. 

Of course it didn’t work.

*

“Wanna go to the movies later? Stan told me about this one—and I mean, I know he sometimes has weird taste, but this one actually did sound good—and it’s about...”

Eddie’s voice made Richie blink his eyes open, startled. He had almost fallen asleep, lost in memories, the August sun warming his skin and making him drowsy. He looked around, yawning. 

They were at the quarry again, like they had been most days that summer; it was the last month of summer break, only a few more weeks until senior year started and life would change all over again. Bill and Mike were still in the water, alternating between swimming and dunking each other under the surface, Stan was reading a few feet away, and Beverly and Ben were lying on one big towel, listening to music together, sharing earbuds. It was a lazy day, the sky was blue, not a cloud to be seen; peaceful. 

Richie yawned again.

“Earth to Richie. Are you even listening?” This time, Eddie sounded almost annoyed. He was sitting cross-legged on his towel, close enough to Richie that it would’ve been so easy for him to reach out a hand and touch Eddie’s knee. He didn’t. 

“Yeah, yeah, ‘m sorry. Something about the movies?” 

He felt sluggish, half of his mind still occupied with that summer night five years ago. He could picture it so clearly, still feel the night breeze against his skin, the lights in Eddie’s room the brightest thing in the whole street, like an arrow pointing, like someone calling out to Richie: _look right here, this is the house of the person you love._

And no, contrary to popular believe that wasn’t Eddie’s mom. 

Eddie rolled his eyes, as if he could hear Richie’s thoughts and was disappointed but not surprised that, even in his head, Richie didn’t come up with better jokes. “Yes, the movies. Do you wanna go?” He spoke each word carefully, pulling the syllables long, like Richie was a child, not able to understand him any other way.

“Ugh, do we have to? All the movies right now sound boring anyway and, besides, I’m broke as fuck.”

Eddie sighed and fell back down onto his towel, the sun catching on a drop of water that trailed down his neck. Richie followed the movement with his eyes, mesmerised, and then shook his head and turned away.

“You’re broke, because you and Bev spent all your money on cigarettes, so don’t think for a second that I have even one ounce of pity for you,” Eddie said and turned to his side, eyes settling accusingly on Richie.

“Well, that’s just not true!” Richie replied, pressing his hand to his chest as if taking offence. “You know damn well that at least half of that money was spent on all the beer we bought for Bill’s stupid party.”

Eddie rolled his eyes again, but a small smile played across his lips. He sighed dramatically. “Fine. I’ll invite you, but I choose the movie.”

“Why would you invite me?” Richie asked, laughing. Something about the idea of him and Eddie alone in a dark movie theatre made his skin itch. 

“Maybe, because I’m an awesome friend?”

“Eh, I don’t know about that—” Richie was cut off when Eddie leaned over to playfully punch his shoulder and he was about to retaliate, when Bill and Mike returned from the water, settling back down onto the towels next to them.

“What are you two bickering about again?” Bill asked, glancing over at them before turning on his back and closing his eyes. 

“Richie’s being an idiot, so nothing’s new there,” Eddie mumbled and Bill chuckled. 

“Am not!”

“You so are!”

And it went on like that, until Eddie took off to “cool down in the water,” which was a weak excuse if you asked Richie, but hey, nobody did.

Richie watched his back as he walked away and thought again of that day many summers ago, of thinking that Eddie leaving felt like rain clouds darkening the sky. He wondered if he would ever get used to it. 

*

They did go to the movies, after all, but Richie wouldn’t let Eddie pay for his ticket. He had been lying about being broke anyway; truthfully, he just wasn’t certain that spending up to two hours in a too-warm cinema hall alone with Eddie, seats close together and their shoulders touching whenever one of them moved, was something he could bear.

But the alternative was denying Eddie a request, and that was just something Richie Tozier wasn’t strong enough to do.

So here they were, lights turning low when the commercial started, music blaring from the loudspeakers and drowning out any other sound. Eddie was sitting on a jacket he had brought for that exact purpose, because “I’m not gonna touch those seats with my bare skin, do you have any idea how many people have sat there, sweating into the cheap fabric?”

It wasn’t entirely surprising, but Eddie’s resourcefulness never ceased to make Richie smile.

They were sharing a bag of popcorn between them, and Richie was acutely aware of his every movement, careful not to grab a handful of the sweets at the same time Eddie did, so their hands wouldn’t touch and make the situation awkward. 

His efforts were unnecessary, as it turned out. Eddie didn’t hold such worries. His hand grazed Richie’s on the armrest, he turned to him to whisper in his ear when a scene was especially exciting, he knocked his knee against Richie’s and smiled—had anyone asked Richie later what the movie was about, he was certain he’d have a hard time answering.

But it was nice, spending time with Eddie like this. It reminded Richie of movie nights with the other Losers when they were younger, all of them pressed together on the couch or curled up on the floor in sleeping bags. He remembered Eddie next to him on one side, Stan on the other, and thinking that life had never felt better than in this moment, with all of his friends in one place, falling asleep with the knowledge of waking up with them still there, by his side.

They had felt so grown-up whenever they managed to stay up past midnight. Richie wanted to go back and tell them to take their time; life would get serious soon enough.

On their way back home from the movie, the street lamps shining down onto the asphalt in irregular intervals, Richie thought that it was always kind of like this, with Eddie. He couldn’t look at the other boy without seeing this younger version of him, without thinking of all the moments that made him so special to Richie. He remembered that time in kindergarten when he fell, running too fast in his haste to reach the swings before anyone else. He had skinned his knee and cried for ten full minutes—not even Bill was able to calm him down—before Eddie showed up, pulled a band-aid out of his fanny pack (yes, he’d had those even then) and applied it with a careful earnestness that, to five year old Richie, seemed like the most impressive thing in the world. He couldn’t even get the plastic off of a band-aid without turning the whole thing into a sticky, unusable mess, so Eddie seemed like a hero, almost. They’d been friends ever since.

“Hey, Eds,” Richie said, then. The night was calm, the only noise coming from the airplanes flying high above them, travelling to distant places. Part of Richie wanted to join them, and the other part of him wanted to stay here forever, with Eddie by his side. “Do you remember the day we first met?”

Eddie was quiet for a moment. When Richie looked over, he saw that he was smiling. “Of course. You made one hell of a first impression, sitting there in the middle of the playground, crying like someone had stolen your favourite toy.”

Richie laughed. “You’re right, that would’ve been worse than almost breaking my fuckin leg,” he said sarcastically. 

“God, you’re such a drama queen, Richie. No wonder you didn’t have any friends in kindergarten.” Eddie’s voice was completely deadpan, but from the corner of his eyes Richie could see the grin on his face.

“Um, excuse you? I had Bill, and he won’t be happy to hear that you’re just dismissing his friendship like that.”

“Oh, please. Bill would’ve been friends with a rock if it had suddenly developed the ability to ask him, that’s just the kind of person he is. Way too nice for his own good, that guy.”

“I mean, true.” Richie smiled when Eddie broke out into quiet laughter. “But I‘ll have you know, I’m at least twice as cool as a rock could ever be.”

“Are you sure? That rock you threw at Henry Bowers’ head was pretty cool.”

Richie shook his head and pulled a badly crumpled cigarette from the pocket of his jeans. “Now you’re just being mean. I do all the work, and the rock earns the applause? How in the world is that fair?”

“At least the rock didn’t smoke when I was walking right next to it and it knew full well that I hate the smell of cigarettes.” Eddie raised an eyebrow and gave Richie a _look_.

Richie smirked. “Don’t you think it makes me look kinda hot, though? I mean, do it for the aesthetic and all that—” He said it in a teasing voice, but Eddie still took a step closer, trying and failing to steal the cigarette right from between his fingers. 

“Sure, now that you’re saying it, risking fucking lung cancer does make you look really hot, Rich, thank you for pointing that out to me.”

Eddie’s cheeks looked flushed in the low light. Probably the cold night air, but it still had Richie distracted for a moment too long, and Eddie didn’t hesitate. He practically jumped him, grabbed the cigarette and danced a few steps away, out of Richie’s immediate reach. 

“Oh, you’re on, Kaspbrak.” 

He ran after Eddie with full speed, but the other boy just turned around, laughing. The sound echoed through the night, making Richie‘s head spin. Eddie was fast, but Richie was bigger than him, his steps longer, and the distance between them still small enough—he caught up with Eddie in under a minute, and, without thinking about it, tackled him to the ground. 

They were lucky. They landed on the side of the road, grass softening their fall, and when Richie saw Eddie’s indignant face he started laughing so hard that tears began forming in the corners of his eyes.

“What the fuck, Richie! Why the hell did you do that?” Eddie almost yelled, his voice loud in the darkness of the night. He was half buried under Richie and he sounded breathless; it made something in Richie’s chest ache.

“I don’t know. I just felt like it.”

“You felt like breaking every bone in my entire fucking body?” Eddie asked, voice heavy with sarcasm. His body was warm where Richie and he touched, and Richie thought that he wouldn’t sleep at all that night, with this memory playing on repeat in his head.

Richie knew that Eddie was kidding, but, truth be told, he was surprised by his own behaviour. Was he so desperate to find reasons to touch Eddie that he was willing to risk hurting him in the process?

He rolled onto his back, bringing just the tiniest bit of distance between the two of them. Then he asked guilty, “Are you hurt?”

His tone of voice seemed to placate Eddie. “If I was hurt, you wouldn’t be hearing the end of it, believe me,” he grumbled. 

“I’m sorry,” Richie finally said, just for good measure. 

“I forgive you.” Eddie’s tone suggested that this was the greatest honour to ever be bestowed upon someone. Richie smiled.

“I’m very glad,” he said, and although his voice was teasing once again, he meant it with every fibre of his being. Having Eddie Kaspbrak’s forgiveness after tackling him to the dirty ground, potentially risking not only open wounds but also infection? That was not something Richie took lightly.

“You better be.”

Eddie turned onto his side, facing Richie. He felt more than saw it, the movement bringing Eddie’s hand close to Richie’s shoulder, fingers brushing against his skin for just one second. Richie kept his eyes resolutely on the sky.

They were quiet for a while, just lying there, in someone else’s front yard. Richie had the terrible thought that he wouldn’t have many more moments like these with Eddie, reckless and beautiful; that, some day, this would be a memory and Eddie would be gone, stepping onto one of those planes that were flying way up above them, and leaving Richie behind for a new, better life. 

He swallowed his panic, his desperation. Sometimes moments with Eddie felt like this, like time was running out and Richie would never be able to catch up with it. The closer to their last year of high school they got, the more insistent the feeling grew. He wanted to tell himself that it would be okay, he would never lose Eddie, he would never leave him—but the truth was, life would take him away, all of them. Stan, Beverly, Bill, Mike, Ben. And Eddie. Always Eddie.

Richie didn’t know how he was supposed to survive it.

“Richie, you’re creeping me out, being quiet this long. Are you okay?” Eddie sounded unsure, and when Richie turned to look at him, his eyes were worried. 

Well, that wouldn’t do. No one was allowed to make Eddie sad, not even him. 

(Maybe especially not him.)

“‘m fine, Eddie Spaghetti. No need to worry your pretty little mind.” He put on one of his Voices, drawing the words out and letting them hang in the air around them. 

Eddie smiled. “That’s good. Because you absolutely owe me a piggyback ride back home for tackling me to this disgusting lawn, and I would feel bad if you’d have to carry me with, like, a broken leg or something.” His smile grew mischievous, and the things it did to Richie’s heart were actually embarrassing. “Don’t get me wrong, you’d still have to do it. But it would be less fun, with you whining all the way back home.”

“You’re a menace, you know that, Eds? I don’t even know why I put up with you.” He heaved a heavy sigh, as if having Eddie in his life was a burden, incomparable to any other. 

“Oh, that’s easy,” Eddie said, the last word almost lost in a yawn, and he was so unbearably endearing in that moment that Richie actively had to stop himself from doing something stupid. “You love me, that’s why.”

It was a joke, of course. But even though Richie’s mind knew that Eddie was just teasing him, his heart skipped a beat. Richie swallowed. Just the thought of Eddie having figured it out (and it wouldn’t have been hard; Richie was so bad at hiding his feelings) made Richie panic in ways that were unimaginable. 

“Yeah, but don’t tell your mom that, or she’s gonna get jealous.” He sounded odd to his own ears, but Eddie just rolled his eyes, a fond expression on his face. 

They stayed like this a few minutes longer, watching plane after plane pass them by. Richie imagined himself and Eddie in a year, boarding one of them, side by side, and starting a future together; far away from Derry, with its antiquated values and toxic people, with so much history, but not all of it good. They could heal and grow into the people they were truly meant to be. 

It was a nice thought, but it made Richie sad. He knew he would never get more than this: Eddie lying beside him, close, but not close enough to touch. But if this was all Richie could ever have, he would gladly take it. If the choice was between a life with Eddie, even if he could never touch him again, even if there was always an unbridgeable distance between them; or if he had to live the rest of his life without him, even if it meant being able to have someone else—the choice was easy. It would always be Eddie. 

Surprisingly, Eddie insisted on that piggyback ride home. Richie made a big deal out of his annoyance, throwing his hands up in the air and grumbling incessantly. But when Eddie couldn’t see his face, he smiled.

*

Summer break was over before Richie fully realised it; he blinked and suddenly he was back in class, sitting behind Eddie and throwing incoherent notes at his increasingly tense back until he turned around and gave Richie such a venomous look that even he had the sense to back off.

Overall, it wasn’t as bad as Richie had anticipated. 

He fell back into a semblance of routine without trying, eating lunch with his friends, sneaking off to catch quick smoking breaks with Bev, spending his afternoons lying on the floor of Stan’s room while the other boy studied. Every weekend the Losers met up for some quality group time; sometimes they watched movies at Bill’s place, sometimes they smuggled various stolen alcoholic drinks onto Mike’s farm and crashed in the barn. 

To Richie, it all carried a bitter aftertaste with it, a sour note, as if they were trying to make memories they could look back on fondly, once they left this place behind.

One afternoon, Bev and he were over at his place, supposedly to study, but really they were just listening to music and smoking one cigarette after another. 

_Eddie would hate this,_ Richie thought, blowing smoke up to the ceiling and then putting the cigarette out. He smiled.

But the thought of Eddie’s annoyed face, the cute grimace he’d make if Richie even dared to breathe in his direction with a cigarette between his lips—it made that urgent feeling in Richie’s chest return, made his mind run in circles. 

Without meaning to, he asked, “Are you in love with Ben?” The words left his mouth unbidden; he didn’t want to push Bev to answer a question she wasn’t ready to answer, or just not ready to share with him.

He was lying with his head in her lap, her fingers carding through his hair and braiding some of the unruly strands. At his words, her hands stopped. A moment later, the movement continued, but slower than before; hesitant. 

After another moment’s pause, she said, “I think so.”

Just that, nothing more. Richie wanted to look up and see her face, but he stayed where he was. He got the feeling that maybe Bev was just as surprised by her answer as he was.

They didn’t speak another word for the entire duration of the next song, but finally, Richie spoke again. Every word felt like it was being ripped from him—he felt open like a wound; like his words laid his every desire bare for all the world to see. 

“How do you know? I mean, the guy’s been in love with you for ages, but you always saw him as just a friend, didn’t you?”

Again, Beverly’s hands stilled in his hair. This time she took even longer to reply than before. “I guess,” she started, “even when I just saw him as a friend, I loved him, in a way. It was always going to be Ben, you know? It just took me a moment longer to realise that this was how I felt; but, deep down, I think the feelings were there all along.”

Richie’s hands trembled at his sides, so he curled them into fists. 

“Does that answer your question?” Bev asked. She lit a new cigarette and put it against Richie’s lips; a question in return. He took a drag and held the smoke inside his lungs a moment too long, just to feel the ache it left behind. 

He remembered meeting Bev for the first time, her lips perpetually curled into a lopsided smile; even when she was sad, even when she was hurting. She possessed a kind of bravery that Richie would never be able to fully grasp. 

He had loved her from the moment they met, when she had returned one of his poorer jokes by giving him the finger; and he loved her now. Loved her like he loved Stan—his brother and his sister. Loved her like he loved Bill and Mike and Ben. 

That was not how he loved Eddie. 

A part of Richie thought that Bev probably knew. Again, he thought of her smile, lips curved up in a way that suggested that she understood something about him that he didn’t even understand himself. The thought terrified him. But it also made him think that, if anyone had to know, it should be Bev. She was kind. And she understood. There wasn’t much more he could ask for. 

“I think it does,” he said finally and he closed his eyes. The next song started playing and Alex Turner’s voice filled the room:

_Secrets I have held in my heart / are harder to hide than I thought / maybe I just wanna be yours / I wanna be yours._

Richie thought of Eddie, just a few weeks ago, lying on his back in the grass beside him: so close, but not close enough; so many words said between them, but never the ones Richie really wanted to speak.

Even if Bev knew, this was a secret he had to keep.

He could accept that he would never have Eddie like this, never hear him say, with a mixture of surprise and wonder, “ _think so. I think I love him.”_ As long as he had him at all, it was enough. 

It would have to be enough. 

*

The school year took its course, tests and exams, homework and assignments—most of them missed on Richie’s part. It didn’t matter, though; the teacher’s might get annoyed, but he was still one of their best students, always among the top of the class when it came to his grades, so they couldn’t well say anything about it.

He spent countless amounts of time, just watching Eddie sitting in front of him: the way his hair had gotten slightly longer, curling at his ears and his neck, the way his fingers were tapping some unrecognisable rhythm on the desk; whatever he did, Richie noticed. He couldn’t help himself. 

But that’s why it was impossible to overlook when, on Monday during lunch break, Eddie didn’t choose to sit beside Richie, like he usually did. Instead, he settled on Stan’s other side and the two of them promptly started in on a conversation Richie wasn’t able to follow—something about one of the comics they both read. 

He tried to catch Eddie’s gaze, tried to get his attention—but it was no use. It was like he didn’t even exist. In that moment, his feelings were a wild, untameable thing. He was angry and he was sad, he didn’t understand why Eddie would act like this. Had Richie done something? Was Eddie mad at him? Had he just finally realised that there was nothing interesting Richie could offer him; that, even among their friends, there were people that shared more of his interests, that were just more fun to be around than Richie?

He got up from the table and went outside, not looking back. He spent the rest of lunch smoking one cigarette after the other, until the anger subsided, the sadness lessened to a bearable degree. When the bell rang and classes continued, he had already schooled his expression into something slightly amused, slightly bored—he didn’t say a word to Eddie for the rest of the day. 

But the very next morning everything went back to normal. Richie rode his bike past Eddie’s house (he had half a mind to just not pick him up, but it was a tradition the both of them had shared for almost as long as he could remember, even when they fought), and the other boy was already there, sitting on his front steps. He looked up when Richie approached and he smiled like yesterday hadn’t even happened. 

Richie didn’t have it in himself to stay mad, so he returned the smile and that was that.

The days passed like this: Richie could’ve drawn a precise picture of the back of Eddie’s head, with the amount of time he spent just looking at it. He wanted to know what was going on behind those brown curls, wanted to know all his secrets. 

He remembered the sleepovers they’d had, just the two of them, back when they were kids. They had stayed up most of the night, just talking; the lights were out in Richie’s room, but the glow from the streetlights outside were illuminating enough of his surroundings for him to make out Eddie’s shape, small and familiar beside him. He remembered with a clarity how he thought it would always be like this: the two of them so close, no space between them for secrets or forbidden thoughts. 

But that was before Richie _knew_. That was before he understood why his heart felt like that when he said something that made Eddie laugh, his whole body alight with joy. 

After, Richie would find excuses whenever Eddie asked to sleep over, and one day he just stopped trying. Richie remembered crying himself to sleep the day he realised that, no matter how much he wanted them to, there were some things that couldn’t last forever. But Eddie still stayed by his side, still laughed at his jokes, still looked at him with those eyes of his, that felt like they could see straight into his soul. And Richie was thankful, so endlessly thankful, for getting even a piece of Eddie that he vowed to never ask for more than he was willing to give. 

That was a long time ago, though—now, there were so many secrets between the two of them that Richie didn’t even try to start counting them. 

And he was scared that a day would come when Eddie would look at him and realise what it all meant; and then he would leave him, leave him for the last time, and never come back.

It felt like that moment came ever nearer, with Eddie choosing to sit beside Stan during lunch more and more often, or sometimes next to Ben or Beverly; the way they leaned close together, shoulders touching, made Richie feel like someone had punched him in the gut. 

What was he doing, getting jealous of his own friends? But he couldn’t stop, and whenever he heard Eddie laugh and knew that he wasn’t the reason, it felt like his chest grew tighter and tighter, taking all of the air from Richie’s lungs.

*

“Richie, this has been going on for long enough now. What’s up with you lately?”

He was lying on his back in Stan’s room again, staring at the ceiling and wondering what would happen if an earthquake hit just now. Would the house collapse? They were on the first floor—if the ground gave out under them, they wouldn’t fall that deep, but it would probably still hurt a lot. If the ceiling broke down, though? That would make things a little bit more complicated.

“What are you talking about, Stanny boy? I’m positively peachy, is what I am.” Richie kept his eyes on the ceiling, following the lines in the wood. He heard Stan shift in his seat by the desk, sighing. Richie only just managed to keep himself from rolling his eyes.

“You’ve been acting weird for weeks now. You’re too quiet, always lost in thoughts; if someone starts talking to you, you blink like you’ve just woken up. It’s starting to freak me out, Rich. Everyone’s worried about you.”

Well, wasn’t that fucking fantastic?

“Usually you guys can’t stop complaining about how much I talk, and now I’m suddenly too quiet? Jeez, make up your goddamn minds.”

Stan made an annoyed sound and got up. Richie kept staring resolutely at the ceiling, even though his vision swam and he didn’t even see it anymore. 

On second thought, that earthquake didn’t sound so bad.

“Listen,” Stan said, and sat down next to him. He nudged Richie’s knee with his foot and this time Richie couldn’t stop himself from rolling his eyes. “I’m not saying this to make you angry or anything, alright? You don’t have to be in a good mood every single second of the day; no one expects that of you, either. But—you’re my best friend. If something’s going on with you, I want to know.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say.” Richie closed his eyes. He imagined himself back on the grass, Eddie by his side instead of Stan, the both of them quiet as they watched the airplanes passing by above. He hated himself for it. “I told you. Everything’s fine.”

“Then why won’t you even look at me?” Stan’s voice was quiet but tinged with something almost like worry. 

Richie raised his head far enough off the ground to shoot Stan an annoyed look. “You happy now?”

“Thrilled,” Stan replied, voice dripping with sarcasm. He sighed again. “Look, you don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to. But don’t say you’re fine when you’re clearly not. I know you, Richie. I’ve known you for almost all my life. Is it so hard for you to believe that I just want you to be okay?”

“I am okay, God, how often do you want me to repeat it?” 

He started getting angry now, but before he could say anything else, Stan cut him off. “Bev told me you asked her how she felt about Ben.” 

That shut Richie up. It was the way Stan said it, not casual, not even accusatory, but with this careful voice, as if he was afraid of the reaction his words would have on Richie. As if he knew that, by asking Bev about Ben, he had really been asking something else entirely.

He didn’t know what to say, so he closed his mouth and kept quiet.

As if unable to take the silence (which was a very un-Stan-like thing, because he could stay quiet for longer than anyone else Richie knew), Stan went on, “You’re barely around during lunch, always outside, smoking yourself to death. Do you have any idea how many ways there are to die, if you’re a smoker? Eddie’s been telling me all about it, and I gotta be honest with you, Rich, if I hear the words ‘lung cancer’ one more time, I’m gonna hit someone, most likely you.” He took a deep breath. “And last weekend at Bill’s? You didn’t even complain when the others decided to watch _Titanic_ . We just did that to get a reaction out of you, you know? Because I know for a fact that you _despise_ that movie; and you might have everyone else fooled, saying you just hate the love story, but I know that it’s because there is a _ton_ of room left on that door and Leonardo DiCaprio still dies, and you think that’s unfair. But you didn’t say a word, just sat there, scrolling through your damn phone as if all your friends weren’t in that same room with you all night.”

Richie swallowed. He didn’t think he’d ever seen Stan this upset, and he almost couldn’t believe that it was all because of him. 

“I should leave,” he said and got up. His back hurt, but what bothered him the most was the beat of his heart, too loud in the silence left by Stan’s voice.

“You don’t have to leave, Richie. You can talk to me, you know.” He grabbed Richie’s wrist when he tried to squeeze around him to get out of the room. “And if it’s about Eddie—“

Richie’s heart stopped. He ripped his arm out of Stan’s grasp, the world spinning around him, breath coming fast, but not fast enough to make his chest feel like he wouldn’t suffocate any moment now.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” He almost spat the words, barely getting them out. 

“Richie!” Stan called after him. But he didn’t stop. 

He kept running; out the door, all the way back to his house, the late afternoon sun tinging the asphalt beneath his feet deep orange. He only stopped once he was in his own room, sinking to the floor, his legs unable to carry him any longer. 

Fuck.

*

The following days at school, Richie felt on edge. 

Whenever he saw Stan, he turned around and walked the other way; he didn’t know what, exactly, he thought would happen, if Stan got the chance to talk to him again. He just knew that he didn’t want to find out.

He felt utterly alone. In class, he sat behind Eddie and didn’t say a word. He thought, again, that it was always like this: Eddie, with his back to him; Eddie, leaving him behind. And, again, he wondered if it would ever get easier, if there was any chance that he would get used to it. One time, during PE, he saw Eddie with a girl, laughing as he helped her back to her feet after she’d stumbled over her unlaced pink shoes; she looked embarrassed, her cheeks flushed, but the way Eddie’s hands gripped hers, no hesitation at all, like it was the easiest thing in the world—that was what truly got to Richie, what made his heart feel like it would break right there, in the middle of the gym. He thought that maybe there was no getting used to this. When Eddie and he rode to school together, he was quiet too; he could feel Eddie’s eyes on him, from time to time, and he thought of Stan’s words— _everyone’s worried about you_ —but Eddie never said anything.

When the weekend came around and the Losers filled the groupchat with their usual texts, planning where to meet, what to do, what everyone could bring, Richie said he was busy and couldn’t come. He felt like the lie was obvious, but no one asked about it. They were probably happy to not have him around, he thought, and spent the whole night lying in his bed, listening to depressing music on the loudest possible setting. 

_Maybe this is for the best_ , he tried to tell himself. In less than a year they would all be gone, anyway, leaving Derry behind—leaving Richie behind, too. This way, he had at least time to get used to life without them. 

*

“What do you think?”

They were on their way home, the school day already only a distant thing in his memory. The days had felt like this, lately: one seeping into the next, Richie watching his friends from afar, smoking outside alone, and pitying himself. He didn’t remember ever feeling like this before. He felt numb, empty, like a well that could never be filled.

“You’re not even listening to me, are you?”

Eddie’s voice again, but this time the words registered. Richie got a strange sense of déjà vu. 

“Sorry.” He coughed. “What’d you say?” His voice felt scratchy in his throat, like he hadn’t talked in days.

“I asked if you’d like me to come over to your place today, to study, or—I don’t know—just to catch up. I feel like we haven’t really talked in ages.” There was a note to Eddie’s voice that Richie couldn’t place. A part of him wanted to say no, just to be petty, but the rest of him missed Eddie so badly that the possibility of refusing him time together, after he explicitly asked for it, was impossible. He didn’t know if that made him selfish.

“Sure. If you want to,” Richie replied. He could almost feel Eddie roll his eyes and it was enough to make him smile.

The house, once they arrived, was empty. Richie was glad. He could tell that his parents grew more worried about him with every passing day, but what was there to say to ease their minds? He had so many words, but none of them good enough to explain why it felt like his time was running out, like something was ending and he didn’t know how to deal with it. 

His room looked exactly like he felt: things were cluttered on the floor and every possible surface, clothes and CDs, photos and books. It wasn’t exactly messy, but it was busy. A clear reflection of his mind, the way his thoughts tangled together, ran over each other, and didn’t leave enough space for him to come to logical conclusions of any kind. 

Eddie chuckled when he sat down on the bed, which was one of the only orderly places in the room; sheets changed just the day before yesterday, tucked in at the sides, the pillow fluffy. “Your room is always just what you’d expect it to be. I like that.”

The words made Richie feel warm. He sat down on the bed, too, enough of a distance between himself and Eddie that they wouldn’t touch by accident.

They got their books out and studied in silence for a while. The sound of the pages turning, pencils scribbling on paper, Eddie’s sock-clad feet drumming out a rhythm on the side of Richie’s bed. They were both restless, as it seemed: Eddie’s body a constant hum of movement, Richie usually never at a loss for words—although these days all the words seemed to stay firmly in his mind, not brave enough to be spoken out loud.

“So,” Eddie said after a while. There was again that note to his voice, something uncertain, a hesitancy. Richie felt himself tense. “I feel like I haven’t seen much of you lately. Is everything okay?”

There it was. Had Stan said anything? Or Bev?

“You see me everyday, Eds. Probably more than almost anyone. We ride to school together every morning.” He sounded defensive to his own ears. He wanted to turn it into a joke, but the words wouldn’t come.

“That’s not what I meant, Richie, and I think you know that.” A moment of quiet, then: “I missed you at Bill’s the other night.”

Eddie said it like it cost him something, the words barely more than a whisper. His fingers were tangled into the soft fabric of the sheets and he shifted on the bed, until he was sitting cross-legged beside Richie. The movement brought them closer together. Eddie’s knee touched Richie’s hand. The small contact did something to Richie’s mind, made him dizzy, and he wanted to pull his hand away, but his body wasn’t listening.

As if from under water, he could hear Eddie say something else, but he couldn’t make out the words.

“Sorry.” He blinked, pulled his hand away at last to bring slightly more distance between them. “I didn’t catch that.”

Eddie sighed. When Richie turned to look at him, he wore an annoyed expression, but there was something else, too.

“Where’s your head at, lately, Rich? You constantly get this far-off expression, like you don’t even care what anyone’s saying.” Eddie sounded angry, suddenly; really angry. Richie swallowed. “Are we too boring for you, Richie? Is that it? Did you find someone else to entertain you? Are the Losers suddenly too uncool for you?”

Richie was so surprised that he didn’t know what to say for a moment. “What are you talking about, Eddie? Of course not! That’s not it at all, you know you’re my best friends—”

“Are we, though? You never sit with us at lunch anymore, you cancel on plans, you’ve been avoiding everyone at school. What else am I supposed to think?” Richie wanted to interrupt him, because that wasn’t what was happening, he didn’t want Eddie to think that; but Eddie wasn’t having it. His next words sounded bitter. “Inez told me she saw you with August, that girl who works at the movie theatre. Is that true?”

It wasn’t true. But the memory of Eddie and that girl in PE was still too fresh in Richie’s mind, the way they had looked so natural together, Eddie’s easy laughter when his hand closed around hers and he helped her back up, fingers lingering just a moment too long to be accidental. Maybe that had been Inez, even. The name sounded familiar, but he couldn’t put a face to it. The thought made his own anger arrive without warning, matching Eddie’s in its ferocity. Before he could think better of it, he said, “What if it were?”

He regretted the words the moment he spoke them. Eddie’s face fell, as if he couldn’t believed it, even though he had been the one to bring it up in the first place.

“Why wouldn’t you tell me? Because you’re right, I am supposed to be your best friend, but lately it doesn’t feel like it.”

Eddie looked—shocked, almost. Was it that hard for him to believe that there were people in the world who would actually want Richie?

“Well, I don’t know. Maybe if you weren’t so busy changing seats during lunch to sit beside Stan, who is _my_ best friend, by the way, I would’ve fucking told you.”

It was childish, Richie knew. He hadn’t been at lunch in days, and he was avoiding Stan with a stubborn determination. His words were petty and ridiculous, if you looked at the context and his actions over the last few weeks, but he was angry and he was hurt, and a part of him (a part of him he hated) wanted Eddie to feel the same way. 

“Are you serious? Fuck you, Richie.” Eddie shook his head, the expression on his face unreadable. But then he laughed, a hard, unrelenting sound. It was so unlike Eddie, who usually had the softest, most cheerful laugh in the entire world. Richie had never heard him laugh the way he did in that moment, and it broke his heart, but he was too caught up in everything that had happened over the last few weeks, small things that Eddie had done that had hurt Richie, whether he knew it or not; his fear of losing him turned into anger, into something twisted that could only think of causing pain.

“I’ll ask August, I’m sure she’d gladly do it,” he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. He gave Eddie a sharp smile. 

“I don’t need this right now.” Eddie’s hands fell to his side, anger draining from him as suddenly as it had come. He turned away, gathering his things and throwing them in his bag without any sort of order. Suddenly, Richie felt very empty. 

“Wait—“ he started, reaching a hand out to grab Eddie’s wrist. But the other boy pulled his arm away like Richie had burned him. 

“Do not fucking touch me.” 

His voice was cold and sharp as ice. Before Richie could reply, Eddie had already gotten to his feet; he heard him slam the door on his way out. Somehow, that pulled Richie out of his stupor. He headed down the stairs after Eddie, taking two steps at a time. Why the fuck had he said that? But as he reached the door, Eddie was already gone, just a small figure in the distance. Leaving him once again.

 _Fuck_ , Richie thought. _This time you really messed up._

The next day in class, Richie was prepared to apologise and tell Eddie the truth, tell him that nothing had happened. He had written it all down, meant to slip the note onto Eddie’s desk when their teacher wasn’t looking.

But Eddie wasn’t there. And the day after that, he came to class without looking at Richie, taking a seat as far away from him as possible. 

That was the moment Richie truly became scared. 

*

If Richie had felt alone before, it was nothing compared to this. He felt isolated, like the last person in the world; life passed him by like it was something that didn’t belong to him—he was an outsider, looking in.

At first he tried to hold on to his anger, but after three days of Eddie acting like he didn’t exist, always gone already when Richie passed his house on his way to school, trying to pick him up like he’d done for as long as he could remember, his anger vanished and left a sort of emptiness, unlike anything Richie had ever felt.

He had avoided Stan before, but now he avoided everyone. What was the use, anyway, if Eddie hated him? He deserved this. For lying. For feeling things that he wasn’t supposed to feel. As soon as one of the Losers came near him, he packed up his things and left, like the Devil himself was on his way to get him.

A week of this passed. Then another. 

Since they had become friends, Richie hadn’t ever gone this long without talking to Eddie.

School was a nightmare. People looked at him like he was something despicable, or at least it seemed that way to Richie. He had hated school before—who didn’t?—but with his friends at his side, it had felt almost bearable and this was their last year, all the time he had left with them. Of course that wasn’t the case anymore. 

At last all his time had run out.

The late October air was cold on his skin when he rode his bike to school and back home, always alone. He didn’t even try to be inconspicuous about his smoking anymore, leaving the door to his room open until the smoke trailed out—but his parents never said anything. Maybe even they had stopped caring about him.

Whenever he passed Eddie’s house, he thought again of that very first time he had realised—

But it was no use, was it? He had always known this road would lead to ruin, but he hadn’t cared. He’d had Eddie, then, and that was enough. Everything he’d give him would be enough for Richie, everything he’d give him would be more than he deserved. Just the memory of his laughter felt like a punch to Richie’s gut, the last of his air running out.

He stopped looking at his phone, for multiple reasons. For one, it was set to a background of all of the Losers together, a few years ago, and it showed Eddie with his head thrown back, laughing at something Richie had said. He didn’t even remember the words anymore, but he remembered the feeling: a weightlessness, a joy that was incomparable. Now, it just made him ache. Additionally, Bev, Stan and Bill kept sending him texts, asking what had happened, asking if they could help—help _him_ of all people—it made him feel so miserable that the sight of his phone alone caused nausea to crawl up his throat, choking him.

Richie thought that he was almost looking forward to the end of the school year. And then he thought that, if it was this bad now, with all of his friends still in reach, how bad would it be if they were truly gone? He missed them with an intensity that he had no name for, like they were integral to his survival and without them he slowly started slipping into oblivion.

He was afraid. But instead of urging him to do something, to try to get them all back, his fear paralysed him, until every movement felt tiring, useless. Richie Tozier, reckless, loud, annoying Richie Tozier, didn’t have any words left to say, to make his friends—make Eddie—forgive him. It felt like the end of the world.

With almost all of his hope gone, November arrived. 

And so did a very exasperated Bill Denbrough, who had had enough of Richie’s bullshit, once and for all.

*

The doorbell rang for what felt like the hundredth time. Instead of answering, Richie turned the music louder, lighting another cigarette. If it was important, the person would come back. If it wasn’t, Richie sure as fuck wouldn’t be bothered to move.

But the noise was relentless, insistent on not being ignored. His parents weren’t home yet, so after another few minutes of ceaseless ringing, Richie got up and went down the stairs, a sharp remark at the tip of his tongue for whoever dared to disturb him; but the words died in his mouth.

“About fucking time, Richie, I’ve been standing here for the last 15 minutes.”

Bill wore a determined expression on his face, when Richie opened the door. He stood a bit smaller than Richie, now, and that was something that still caught him off guard, once in a while; tall Bill Denbrough, their leader, whom they’d follow into the depths of hell and beyond—smaller than Richie, with all his fears and self pity. Even though Bill wasn’t bigger in size, there was something in the way he carried himself, a kind of confidence that none of the other Losers had managed to achieve just yet.

Richie thought that, if Bill asked, he would still follow him anywhere.

With that same confidence, Bill passed him by and entered the house, shutting the door behind him without waiting for any sort of reply from Richie. He seemed angry, but his anger was a calm, calculated thing. Bill had found a problem and he would solve it, whatever the cost.

He sat down at the kitchen table and, after Richie took an uncertain seat opposite him, he said, “This has got to stop.”

That was not what Richie had expected, and he felt himself getting defensive. “I didn’t even do anything, Billiam, so you’ll have to be a bit clearer than that.” There was an edge to his voice when he replied, a sarcastic tone that he couldn’t stop from leaving his lips.

“No, that’s exactly the problem, actually. You don’t do _anything,_ and I’ve had enough.” 

Again, Richie was taken aback. “I have no fucking idea what you’re talking about.”

“Really?” Bill asked, pulling the single word so long that the letters filled the silent space between them. “So you _haven’t_ been acting like a complete asshole these last few weeks, ignoring everyone, running out on Stan when he tried to talk to you, saying something to Eddie that had him so upset that he didn’t come to school for a day?”

“I didn’t—“ Richie started, but at the look Bill gave him, he fell silent. 

“Bev and Stan talked to me, Richie; we all just want you back, alright? Even Eddie.” 

Bill’s voice was soft, but at the mention of Eddie’s name, sheer panic seized Richie’s body. He got up from the table, he just wanted to _run run run_ and never come back. His voice was almost unrecognisable, fear, anger and humiliation choking him, when he said, “I don’t know what Bev and Stan told you, but it’s not true.”

Before he could get far, though, Bill blocked his way. He looked so earnest, with those sincere eyes of his. Richie thought that if he didn’t leave soon, he would start crying and maybe never stop.

“I think it is, Richie. And it’s _okay_.” 

Before Richie could react, Bill had wrapped his arms around him, a tight embrace. His first instinct was to push him away, because how could he allow this? Bill would realise, they’d all realise—

“We all love you, Rich. You know that, right?”

Richie did start crying, then.

He cried for a long time, until his whole body felt exhausted. Bill stayed. He was quiet, just patting his back until Richie calmed down enough to stop crying; only then did Bill let go of him, to look through the cabinets in search of a packet of tissues.

Then he got out his phone. “Let me call the others,” he said, and at Richie’s panicked expression, added, “Eddie excluded. I have a plan, but we’ll need help to make it work.”

*

The plan was as easy as it was terrifying. 

Bill didn’t go into detail about anything that had happened, what Richie maybe admitted to, when he started crying the way he did. The others didn’t press him for answers, and Richie realised all over again how much he loved them. 

They didn’t even ask for an apology, but Richie gave it nonetheless. It was the least he could do. 

Stan and Bev sat with him on the couch, Stan on his left side, Bev on his right, so close together that it didn’t feel like they were three separate people anymore, but instead one thing made up of love and acceptance. In that moment, Richie was filled with so much happiness, so much relief, that he thought he would burst with it.

Now, two days later, standing on the front porch of Bill’s house, Richie was consumed by nerves. But that was the plan, and he had promised to stick to it.

It was Saturday, but not just any Saturday. Today was Eddie’s birthday.

He couldn’t celebrate it at home, of course. Mrs. Kaspbrak would never allow it. But since Eddie had worked hard, these last few years, to do less of what she allowed and more of what he truly wanted, that hadn’t stopped him. So, instead, he would celebrate at Bill’s house, whose parents had allowed it, “just this once,” and would stay with Georgie at Bill’s grandparents’ place for the night. 

And that’s why Richie was here, present in hand, feeling like he would either throw up or faint, he wasn’t sure which, but definitely one of them. 

His phone buzzed in his pocket. A text from Bill that just read, _Ready?_

Of course he wasn’t.

His phone buzzed again. _Just stick to the plan!_

The plan was this: the party Bill had organised for Eddie, not so much a surprise as a present of his own; all of their friends there already, having spent the last hours decorating the place, baking the cake, and making sure Eddie would have the best birthday possible; Richie, at the door, with an apology and an explanation, a way to hopefully make everything right again.

The present was the only thing he’d decided on alone.

He took a deep breath and held it. And then he rang the doorbell.

*

Eddie was a sight to be seen when he opened the door; still mid-sentence and with a smile on his lips that was so luminous that, to Richie, it felt like the whole street lit up, just by his presence. It vanished when he saw Richie, though, and was replaced by a complicated expression that Richie couldn’t interpret.

Well, so far so good. At least he hadn’t shut the door right in Richie’s face, so he’d count it as a win.

“Hey,” Richie said and cringed. He cleared his throat. “Happy birthday.”

Eddie was wearing a dark red pullover, button-down shirt underneath, but only visible at his throat and his wrists, the lighter fabric showing just so; dark blue jeans completed the outfit. He looked so good that Richie’s heart skipped a beat.

“Richie,” Eddie said, and then, as if remembering that he was still angry with him, “what are you doing here?”

Richie’s lips were already halfway to forming the words to a joke, but he managed to stop himself at the last second. He took a deep breath. “Bill told me about the party. I came to apologise and also to give you this.” He held out the present, surprisingly well wrapped, but decorated in horribly festive Christmas-themed paper and lots of ribbons.

Eddie looked at it sceptically, but Richie thought that, maybe, there was a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips.

“Also,” Richie continued, and the next words were harder, but not nearly as hard as they would be, if they were what he really wanted to say. “I’m sorry for how I acted these last few weeks, I know I’ve been a fucking jerk. I know everyone was worried and I can’t really explain it. I just realised how little time we had left here, you know, how close we are to finishing school and leaving and something about that made me freak out, I don’t know. But I’m sorry. I miss you.” He blushed and then continued in a hurry, as if to bury the _I miss you_ in a flood of other words, because if he couldn’t take it back, maybe he could at least make it stand out less. “What I said about that movie theater girl was a lie, I don’t even fucking know anyone who works there, I didn’t meet with anyone or did anything with anyone, I just said that because I was angry and the way you reacted, as if it was absolutely impossible that anyone would want me like that, it made me want to hurt you, too. But that wasn’t okay and I hated myself for it and I wanted to take it back immediately and I know I’m rambling and I’m gonna stop now, sorry.”

He was breathless again, like he so often was in Eddie’s presence. But he was also relieved that he’d gotten all the words out. The rest was in Eddie’s hands, now.

When Eddie was quiet, Richie looked up at him (when had he even looked away?), but to his utter amazement, Eddie was… smiling. A real, warm smile. Richie was afraid his knees would give out at the sight of it.

“I missed hearing you talk like that, Rich,” Eddie said, and laughed a quiet laugh. Someone called Eddie’s name from inside, and he shook his head, smile still lingering on his lips. Then he took the present out of Richie’s hands. “I’ll take this now.” He turned around, back to the Denbrough house and to whatever person required his attention, but before Richie could panic again, Eddie looked over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow at him. “Are you coming, or what?”

Richie didn’t need to be asked twice. 

This time, the sight of Eddie’s back didn’t scare him so badly. So what if Eddie would leave him some day? As long as Richie could follow, it would all be okay, in the end.

*

The Losers had managed to exceed all of Richie’s expectations in regards to the party. The whole house was decorated with colourful paper streamers, confetti scattered on the floor and various surfaces, fairy lights hung high on the ceiling, turning the living room into something cosy and comfortable, a fairy tale in November. Someone had made an extravagant banner that read, in huge, gold-coloured, cursive letters, _Happy Birthday, Eddie_. Somehow, Richie suspected Mike to have written it; he had the most orderly handwriting out of all the Losers, Stan being the exception, but his writing was simpler, more efficient. The birthday cake Ben had baked stood in the middle of the kitchen table, decorated with precisely seventeen candles and many, many sprinkles; presents were positioned all around it and Eddie laid Richie’s down among them.

When the others saw him, they smiled. The moment Eddie didn’t look, Bill gave Richie a thumbs up; he grinned from ear to ear from where he was sitting beside Mike, the other boy close at his side, one arm thrown over Bill’s shoulder, the other loosely curled around a beer bottle.

The rest of the night passed almost too quickly. 

Richie wanted to stay like this forever, his friends all around him once again, Eddie at his side, his laughter the best sound Richie had ever heard. They watched Eddie’s favourite movies, played _Never Have I Ever_ and got exceedingly tipsy in the process, as they had so many times before, asking about secrets like there was anything they didn’t know about each other.

(There was Richie’s badly kept secret, of course, but he had always managed to keep quiet about that, and so that's what he did that night as well.)

Richie hadn’t even realised how much he’d missed this: Bev falling asleep with her head on his shoulder, Stan and Ben discussing a _TED Talk_ they’d both watched (something about fireflies, but Richie couldn’t focus long enough to figure out what, exactly, made them special), Bill and Mike in quiet conversation about some book Richie had never heard about, which wasn’t surprising, since the two of them read the strangest things—their bodies turned towards each other, Mike’s laughter interrupting the hum of the movie from time to time. And Eddie, of course, always Eddie. He was sitting on Richie’s other side (the one not currently occupied by a sleeping Beverly), eyes fixed on the tv screen. Richie could watch him like this forever, never getting bored by the intent way Eddie focused on the movie, not once looking away; his body tense, almost, even though he had seen this story play out so many times before, and knew exactly how it would end.

When the movie was over and midnight came closer and closer, all the Losers gathered around the kitchen table. Eddie refused to blow out the candles on his birthday cake, because “that’s a stupid tradition and also really unsanitary.” Instead, he wanted everyone to blow out the candle on their own piece of cake, all of them at the same time; this way, they could all make a wish and also wouldn’t catch any airborne diseases. Wasn’t that better?

Richie thought that he would love him forever.

Then, it was time for Eddie to unwrap his presents. Richie was so nervous that he only vaguely noticed what the others gave him, but once Eddie arrived at his present, it was all he could focus on. Music was playing in the background, but he couldn’t make out any words, as Eddie untied the many, many bows, his fingers unknotting the glossy ribbons easily. When he finally managed to get all the wrapping paper off, he brushed his thumb over the shiny surface of the CD cover.

It was a mixtape. A playlist of songs that reminded Richie of Eddie, burned on a CD—something you didn’t really do anymore, now that _Spotify_ existed, but Richie had always been a romantic at heart. The cover was a photo of the two of them, taken a few summers ago. They looked so carefree, back then, so happy. In the photo, Richie had thrown his arm over Eddie’s shoulder, because it was from a time before touching him had started to feel like one step too close to revealing a secret he couldn’t even admit to himself. The songs were written on the back of the photo, his barely legible scribble visible when Eddie opened the cover.

Their eyes met. Eddie smiled, and there it was again, that warm, genuine smile from before, the one Richie had thought he would never see again. “Thank you, Richie,” he said, just like that, as if the words didn’t leave Richie breathless all over again.

Richie just smiled back, at a loss for words once again, as seemed to be the case so often lately.

*

They fell asleep all over the Denbrough’s living room. On the couch and the carpet, cuddled together under blankets and in sleeping bags, warmed by the presence of each other and the alcohol still coursing through their veins. It was as it had always been and Richie was happier than he could put into words.

The night was quiet, the music turned off; only one of the fairy lights was left to illuminate the darkness, way up on the ceiling. It cast the whole room into a soft glow. 

Richie was the only one left awake, the adrenaline of the last few hours still humming through his blood, making it impossible to fall asleep just yet. Plus, Eddie was lying next to him, curled up on his side, one of his hands touching Richie’s wrist. It made Richie’s heart ache, this small contact. It made him both happy and sad; _resigned_ might be the right word, he thought. He had accepted the fact of his life like this, close to Eddie, but his own secrets keeping them apart. After weeks without him, Richie finally understood that even this was a privilege and so much more than he deserved. He wished he could just turn his feelings off, make them quiet like the music earlier, because it would be so much easier if he loved Eddie, but only as a friend.

He was lying on his back, eyes once again studying the ceiling. Richie didn’t wish for an earthquake this time, because it would wake Eddie up and they’d all have to leave, but he wanted to stay like this; with Eddie’s breath warm on the side of his neck, making goosebumps break out all over his body. He tried to match the slow rhythm, _inhale exhale inhale_ ; he tried to will his lungs to breathe just the same way, a small intimacy that Eddie wouldn’t even realise they’d shared. But Richie’s body wouldn’t oblige—this close to Eddie, breathing never came easy to him.

And then Eddie stretched, his hand wrapped itself around Richie’s wrist, and he made a soft sound. He asked, voice rough with sleep, “Richie, are you awake?” It was barely a whisper.

Richie wanted to lie, stay quiet and close his eyes. He didn’t know why.

But he had been so brave tonight; maybe it could last just a little bit longer. The darkness made him feel safer, the quietness of the room, the low glow of the fairy lights, and Eddie’s closeness. “I’m awake.” He turned to his side, the one facing Eddie, and met the other boy’s gaze. Eddie’s fingers were still wrapped around Richie’s wrist, warm and impossible not to notice.

The other boy smiled, an almost mischievous tilt to the curve of his lips. It reminded Richie of the end of summer break, the two of them lying together—not unlike they were right now—watching the airplanes passing above them. It felt like a lifetime ago. It felt like just yesterday.

“Wanna go for a walk?” Eddie asked. 

Who was Richie to refuse him?

*

Outside, the night was calm, but cold; the contrast so obvious to the Denbrough house, that, even bundled up in coats and scarves as they were, their teeth started chattering after a few minutes of aimless wandering. 

“Did you have anything specific in mind, or did you just want us both to die of frostbite out here, Eddie Spaghetti?” Richie’s breath left little white clouds in the air around them.

Eddie chuckled and bumped his shoulder into Richie’s. Even through all the layers, the contact made Richie feel warm. “What if I did?”

The words stirred something in Richie’s memory, but he couldn’t quite reach it.

“Would you stay with me, Richie?” Eddie asked, and then stopped, looking back at Richie, standing beneath one of the streetlights and looking like a creature from another world, too bright and luminous for this one. “Even if it meant dying of frostbite?”

His tone was playful, like they were still kids, running around and following Bill on adventures. _Would you stay with me, Richie?_ _Even if we were pirates, exploring faraway lands?_ Like it was even a question. Like the answer hadn’t been clear, back then and right now. Of course. Of course he would stay, if Eddie asked him to.

But they weren’t kids anymore, and despite Eddie’s easy tone, there was something else in his eyes; a searching look, like Richie was a puzzle he wanted to solve.

“I don’t know, Eds,” Richie replied. And then, a challenge for a challenge, because it was all the bravery he could manage tonight, “Would you want me to?”

And Eddie smiled, surprised, as if he had hoped for a different answer, but was pleased by the realisation that Richie thought to ask him if this was what _he_ wanted, because that was what really mattered, anyway, wasn't it? 

They were standing very close, both of them caught in the glow of the streetlight, the world around them plunged into a darkness that didn’t quite reach them. Alone, but not really. Eddie took a step closer still, and again, there was this feeling of panic in Richie’s chest; this ache, this inability to take the next breath. 

“I would,” Eddie said. And he stood up on his tiptoes and kissed Richie right there, in the middle of the street.

It was a soft kiss. Just the brush of Eddie’s lips, warm against Richie’s; something fragile, something unfathomable, the contact so small and yet everything Richie had ever wanted and never dared to dream about. It was both exactly as he had imagined it and infinitely better. 

Eddie pulled back. “Does this—” he started, but Richie didn’t let him finish. 

“ _Yes_ ,” he breathed, and he kissed Eddie again. 

Eddie’s hands tangled in his hair and, somehow, he managed to pull him even closer, the two of them touching _everywhere_. Richie’s body didn’t have time to decide on what to focus on first: the press of Eddie’s lips, warm and tasting faintly of cake, his tongue licking over Richie’s lower lip and almost giving him a heart attack; Eddie’s fingers, travelling from Richie’s hair to his face, thumb stroking over his cheekbone, almost too gentle for Richie to bear; or Richie’s own hands, touching Eddie—he didn’t even know where to start, but finally settled on the side of Eddie’s neck, his pulse racing under Richie’s fingertips.

When Eddie pulled away again, Richie let him. He stayed close, his thumb stroking over Richie’s cheek one last time, and then he let his hands sink to his sides.

“Does this answer your question?” Eddie asked, his lips red as they curled into a smile.

Richie was mesmerised, just looking at those lips, that smile. He cleared his throat. “My question?”

Eddie laughed, the sound the only thing that broke the night apart. “You asked if I would want you to stay. Does that answer your question?”

“I think so?” It was more of a question than anything else, and Eddie chuckled. Richie took a deep breath and said, more purposeful this time, “Yes, it does.”

Eddie still looked like something otherworldly, the light of the street lamp turning the ends of his hair golden. He was beautiful like this, brave and alive in a way Richie had never dared to be. “And what about you, Richie?” he asked, eyes fixed on him in that intent way of his. “Would you stay with me?”

Even now, with the memory of Eddie’s lips on his so clear in his mind, he was still scared to admit it; the lengths he would go to stay at Eddie’s side. “Don’t you know that already?”

“Maybe I want to hear you say it.” 

Richie gathered all his courage; and it seemed a bit easier, with Eddie standing in front of him like this, radiant, more dream than reality. “Yes, Eddie, I would stay with you. I would stay with you for as long as you’d want, and if you’d want me to stay forever, I would. Without hesitation, I would. I love you so fucking much that, sometimes, I feel like I can’t even breathe with the weight of it, because how could you ever feel the same way? I remember the moment I knew I loved you, but if I try to remember a time before that, I come up empty. It has always been like this, from the moment I met you. I love you. I love you—”

Now that the words were out, they didn’t seem to want to stop coming. Richie was hit with such a strong wave of emotions that he was scared it would break him in half. He would never be whole, after this, and maybe he never had been; a part of him had always belonged to Eddie.

Eddie’s face was unreadable, once again. He reached out and took Richie’s hand in his, like it was easy, like Richie hadn’t thought about doing just that innumerable times and never quite dared it. Then he lifted Richie’s hand to his mouth and pressed a soft kiss into his open palm. 

“I’d like that. Forever sounds like just the right amount of time,” he said, and his smile, this time, was the brightest thing Richie had ever seen. “And, just if it wasn’t obvious: of course I love you, too.”

They walked back to the Denbrough house hand in hand, the cold of the night a distant memory.

*

They were almost back at the house, when Eddie said, “Do you want to know when I knew?”

“Knew?” Richie asked. The events of the night had apparently taken his ability to speak more than one word at a time. 

Eddie laughed again, a sound Richie would never get enough of. “Knew that I loved you.”

 _Oh_ , Richie thought. His heart still felt so fragile, but the soft tone of Eddie’s voice made him want to know the answer nonetheless. He nodded. 

“We went to the circus. It was this tiny thing that had, like, maybe two acts. We were standing in line for popcorn and suddenly this clown jumped out and scared the hell out of me. I got a really bad asthma attack, but my inhaler was empty and I started to panic. Do you remember?”

“Yeah,” Richie said, voice rough. Watching Eddie get hurt had always terrified him. Eddie squeezed his hand. 

“Well, then you remember what happened next.” Eddie smiled again. “You went through your backpack like a maniac, yelling at anyone who even looked at me the wrong way. Then you got an inhaler out and pressed it into my hand, like it was the most obvious thing in the world—of course you’d have a spare inhaler with you, just in case. And I know you realised, even then, that I didn’t actually have asthma and this wasn’t an asthma attack, but you still carried that thing with you—God knows for how long—because you wanted to be prepared and because you understood that, even if it wasn’t real, I needed it to get better.”

“But,” Richie started, voice trailing of. “That was years ago,” he finally managed.

“It was.” Eddie pulled him to a stop, the Denbrough house only a few more steps away; they could already make out the faint light coming from between the living room curtains. He looked at Richie with a kind of tenderness that made him want to hold on to his hand forever, and never let go. “But I remember thinking that no one else had ever cared about me like that before, like _you_ cared about me. You said that you can’t remember a time before you loved me, but I do. Love was always something I had to be careful about, something that could be used as a weapon against me. Do you know what people do to each other, all in the name of love? Of course you know. You’ve seen what my mother does, and she claims to love me. But that’s not what you do. You loved me, all these years, without ever wanting anything in return. And you cared about me, not because you thought I needed it, but because you just—wanted to. I have never met another person who loves as selflessly as you do, Richie; and I can’t imagine that that’s an easy thing to do. Just for that I’d love you. But also for a hundred reasons more.”

“Fuck, Eds, we’re gonna be one of those really annoying couples, aren’t we? Who always declare their love to each other in the most inappropriate moments, like someone else’s wedding, or something?” Richie had to turn it into a joke, because otherwise he’d start crying right then and there. His joy felt too big for his body to hold.

Eddie laughed, like he felt the same way. There was a good chance that he actually did, and that was something Richie would need a long time to get used to.

An airplane passed above them, closer than Richie had ever seen it before. In the darkness, he could make out all the little windows, lit up like the Denbrough house before them. With Eddie’s hand still in his, their friends fast asleep only a few feet away, and his future laid out before him, a whole ocean of possibilities—it suddenly didn’t seem so scary anymore. In fact, he could almost see it, that same image he’d had before: him and Eddie, side by side, boarding a plane together; their friends, waving until they were small dots in the distance, but at the same time never farther away than the phone in his pocket—a few taps of his finger, and their group chat would open, a photo of them all greeting him. 

Richie took a deep breath and let it back out. He looked at Eddie and asked, “Ready?” 

The other boy nodded, and, together, they stepped back into the warmth of the Denbrough house.

It felt like the beginning of the rest of their lives.

**Author's Note:**

> I recently joined Twitter to find more people who love Richie & Eddie (and all of the Losers, really) so feel free to follow me [@softseptemberr](https://twitter.com/softseptemberr) and talk to me about these idiots ♥


End file.
